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  “Did you miss where I said I don’t want to date while I’m here?”

  “I didn’t miss it,” Heather says, “I’m ignoring it.”

  Of course she is. “Okay, for the sake of argument let’s say I am interested in someone—which I’m not. What type of guy do you think I would attract, knowing I’ll be out of his life in a month?”

  “You don’t have to bring it up,” Heather says. “It’s obviously a part of the deal, and a month is already longer than some couples last. So don’t worry about it. Consider it a holiday love affair.”

  “‘Holiday love affair’? Did you really just say that?” I roll my eyes. “You need to stay away from the Hallmark Channel this time of year.”

  “Think about it! It’s a no-pressure relationship because the whole thing has an end date. And you’ll have a great story to tell your friends back home.”

  I can tell I’m not going to win this one. Heather is more unrelenting than Rachel, which is saying a lot. The only way out is to put things off until it’s no longer a possibility because it’s too late.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say.

  I hear the familiar laughs of two women outside so I pull aside the curtain and peek out. Two middle-aged women from the Downtown Association, their arms full of posters, walk toward the Bigtop.

  I wrap up the rest of my sandwich to take with me, and then I give Heather a hug. “I’ll keep my eye out for a holiday Romeo, but I need to get back to work now.”

  Heather rewraps her sandwich and shoves it into the leftovers bag. She follows me out of the trailer and heads toward her car. “I’ll keep an eye out for him, too,” she calls back.

  The Downtown Association ladies are talking to Mom at the counter when I walk up. The oldest lady, with a long gray braid, holds up a poster featuring a garbage truck strung with Christmas lights. “If you could post a few of these again, the city would really appreciate it. Our holiday parade will be bigger than ever this year! We don’t want anybody in the community to miss out.”

  “Of course,” Mom says, and the braided lady sets four posters on the counter. “Sierra will have them up this afternoon.”

  I duck below the counter to grab the staple gun. Heading out of the Bigtop with the posters, I stifle a laugh as I look them over. I’m not sure a festive garbage truck will drum up a larger crowd, but it does foster a small-town feel.

  When I was younger, Heather’s family brought me with them to the parade a few times, and I will admit it was sentimental fun. Most holiday parades I see now are on TV, coming out of New York or L.A. They don’t often include entries like the Society of Pug Owners, or Friends of the Library, or tractors that blast country music Christmas carols as they roll down the streets. Although I can picture them doing that at the hometown parade back in Oregon.

  I hold the last poster against a wooden light pole at the entrance to our lot, punching a staple into each of the top corners. Running my hand to the bottom of the poster, I hear Andrew’s voice behind me.

  “Need any help?”

  My shoulders tense. “I’ve got it.”

  I punch two more staples into the bottom corners. I then step back and pretend to study my work long enough for Andrew to move on. When I turn around, I see that he wasn’t talking to me, but to a gorgeous guy around our age a couple of inches taller than Andrew. The guy holds a tree upright with one hand and wipes his dark hair out of his eyes with the other.

  “Thanks, but I’m fine,” he says, and Andrew walks away.

  The guy looks at me and smiles, a beautiful dimple digging into his left cheek. I can feel my face instantly flush, so I lower my gaze to the dirt. My stomach flutters, and I take a deep breath and remind myself that a cute smile means absolutely nothing about the person.

  “Do you work here?” His voice is soft, reminding me of the old crooner songs my grandparents played during the holidays.

  I look up, willing myself to act professional. “Did you find everything you need?”

  His smile remains, along with that dimple. I brush some hair behind my ears and force myself not to look away. I have to hold myself back from taking a step closer.

  “I did,” he says. “Thank you.”

  The way he looks at me—almost studying me—makes me flustered. I clear my throat and look away, but when I look back, he’s already walking off, the tree hoisted onto his shoulder like it weighs almost nothing.

  “That’s a nice shade of red, Sierra.”

  Standing beside the light pole, Andrew shakes his head at me. I want to respond with something sarcastic, but my tongue hasn’t untied yet.

  “Did you know dimples are actually a deformity?” he continues. “It means he has a muscle in his face that grew too short. It’s kind of gross if you think about it.”

  I put my weight on one foot and give Andrew my best Are we done here yet? look. This maybe comes across as meaner than I’d like to be, but an anvil clearly needs to be dropped on his head if he thinks this kind of jealousy is the way to my heart.

  I take the staple gun back to the counter and wait. Maybe the guy with the dimple will return for some tinsel or one of our watering cans with an extra-long spout. Or maybe he needs lights or mistletoe. But then I feel dumb. I told Heather all the reasons I don’t want to get involved with anyone while I’m here—good reasons—and those reasons have not changed in the last ten minutes. I’m here for a month. One month! I do not have time, nor the heart, to get involved.

  Still, the idea has now taken hold. Maybe I wouldn’t mind a little expiration dating. Maybe I wouldn’t be so fussy, as my friends like to say, about imperfections if I knew I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—be with him for more than a few weeks. If he happens to be hot with an adorable dimple, well then, good for him! And me.

  I send a text to Heather that afternoon: What exactly would a holiday love affair entail?

  CHAPTER SIX

  The sun has barely risen, but I have two texts waiting for me when I wake up.

  The first is from Rachel, complaining about the amount of work it takes to plan a winter formal when sane people are either cramming for finals or holiday shopping. If I were there, I know she would easily convince me to help, but there’s not much I can do from nine hundred miles away. Thankfully, balancing my work on the lot with schoolwork isn’t too difficult. My teachers send class notes and visuals, and I do the assignments when things slow down and I can hop online. Talking to Monsieur Cappeau once a week won’t be the most fun thing in the world, but at least I won’t fall out of practice for the oral part of my French grade.

  Sitting on my bed, I read the second text from Heather: Please say you’re serious about a holiday boyfriend. Devon spent the whole night talking about his fantasy football team. Save me! I’m about to make him need a fantasy girlfriend.

  I stand up, texting: A really cute guy bought a tree yesterday.

  As I’m on my way to take a shower she responds: Details!

  Before I can untie the knot on my drawstring pajama bottoms, she texts again: Never mind! Tell me when I bring lunch.

  After the shower, I put on a gray sweatshirt and jeans. I pull my hair into a high ponytail, tug out a few strands so they’re loose around my face, add a bit of makeup, and then step out into the cool morning. In the Bigtop, Mom stands behind the counter putting change in the register. When she sees me, she points at my still-steaming Easter egg mug on the counter, with a candy cane already sticking out.

  “Have you been up long?” I ask.

  She blows gently across the surface of her own drink. “Not everyone can sleep through those texts pinging on your phone.”

  “Oh. Sorry about that.”

  Dad walks over and kisses us both on the cheek. “Morning.”

  “Sierra and I were talking about her text messages,” Mom says. “I suppose she doesn’t need her beauty sleep, but—”


  Dad gives her a kiss on the lips. “You don’t need it either, honey.”

  Mom laughs. “Who said I was talking about me?”

  Dad scratches the graying stubble along his jaw. “We did agree it’s important for her to stay connected to her friends back home.”

  I decide not to tell them one of the texts was from Heather.

  “That’s true,” Mom says, and then shoots me a look. “But maybe ask your life back home to sleep in occasionally.”

  I imagine Rachel and Elizabeth right now, probably on the phone planning the rest of this long Thanksgiving weekend.

  “Since you brought up life back home,” I say, “I think it’s time you told me whether or not we’re coming back next year.”

  Mom blinks and rears back her head. She looks at Dad.

  Dad takes a long drink from his thermos. “Eavesdropping on our conversations?”

  I twist a loose strand of hair. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I overheard your conversations,” I clarify. “So how worried should I be?”

  Dad takes another sip before answering. “There’s no reason to worry about the farm,” he says. “People will always want Christmas trees, even if they buy them at a superstore. We just may not be selling them ourselves.”

  Mom touches my arm, an uneasy look on her face. “We will do everything we can to keep the lot open.”

  “It’s not only me I’m concerned about,” I say. “Of course I want it to stay open for personal reasons, but this place has been here since Grandpa opened it. It’s where the two of you met. It’s your life.”

  Dad nods slowly and ultimately shrugs. “The farm is our life, really. I guess with all the early mornings and late nights back home, I’ve always seen this as the prize. Watching people get excited about finding the right trees. It’ll be hard to let that go.”

  I admire so much that they’ve never let this become just a business.

  “All that will still be happening with our trees,” Dad says, “somewhere, but . . .”

  But someone else will get to watch it happen.

  Mom drops her hand from my arm and we both look at Dad. This would be the hardest for him.

  “The lot has barely broken even the past few years,” he says. “Last year, with the bonuses I gave to the crew, we actually lost money. We made up for it with the wholesalers, and I guess that’s where things are turning. Your Uncle Bruce has been really focusing on that while we’re gone.” He takes another sip. “I’m not sure how much we can handle before we finally admit . . .”

  He trails off, unable to say it—or unwilling to say it.

  “So this might be it,” I say. “Our last Christmas in California.”

  Mom’s face is a mirror of gentleness. “We haven’t decided anything, Sierra. But it might be a good idea to make this one memorable.”

  Heather steps into the trailer carrying two more bags of leftovers. Her eyes are electric, and I know she wants me to dish on the cute guy who came by yesterday. Devon walks in after her, looking at his phone. Even with his face bowed, I can tell he’s good-looking.

  “Sierra, this is Devon. Devon, this is . . . Devon, look up.”

  He looks up at me and smiles. His short brown hair frames round cheeks, but it’s his comforting eyes that make me like him immediately.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say.

  “You too,” he says. He holds my gaze long enough to prove his sincerity, and then his face dives back into his phone.

  Heather hands Devon one of the bags of food. “Baby, go bring this to the guys out there. And then help them out loading trees or something.”

  Devon takes the bag without glancing up from his phone and then leaves the trailer. Heather sits across from me at the table, and I move my computer onto the pillow beside me.

  “I’m guessing your parents weren’t home when Devon picked you up,” I say. Heather looks confused, so I point at her hair. “It’s a little messy in back.”

  Her cheeks go red and she rakes her fingers through the tangles. “Oh, right . . .”

  “So are things looking up between you and Mr. Monosyllabic?”

  “That’s a nice word,” she says. “If the choice is between listening to him or kissing him, kissing is a much better use of his mouth.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “I know, I know, I’m a horrible human being,” she says. “So tell me about that guy who came in.”

  “I have no idea who he is. There’s not much to say.”

  “What does he look like?” Heather pops the lid off a container of turkey salad, which has walnut and celery chunks. Her family is still trying to rid their house of Thanksgiving.

  “I only saw him for a moment,” I say, “but he looked about our age. He had this dimple that—”

  Heather leans forward, her eyes narrowed. “And dark hair? A killer smile?”

  How does she know that?

  Heather pulls out her phone, taps it a few times, and then shows me an online picture of the very guy I was talking about. “Is this him?” She does not look pleased.

  “How did you know?”

  “The first thing you mentioned was his dimple. That was the giveaway.” She shakes her head. “Plus, that would be my luck. Sorry, Sierra, but no. Not Caleb.”

  So his name is Caleb. “Why?”

  She leans back and sets her fingertips on the edge of the tabletop. “He’s just not the best choice, okay? Let’s find someone else.”

  I’m not letting this stop here and she knows it.

  “There’s this rumor,” she says, “but I’m pretty sure it’s true. Either way, something happened.”

  “What is it?” This is the first time I’ve heard her speak so cryptically of someone. “You’re making me nervous.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t want to get into this. I hate being a gossip, but I am not going on a double date with him.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s unconfirmed, okay? It’s only what I’ve heard.” She looks me in the eyes, but I am not saying a word until I hear it. “They say he attacked his sister with a knife.”

  “What?” My stomach twists. “That guy is . . . Is she still alive?”

  Heather laughs, but I can’t tell if it’s from my shocked expression or because she was joking. My heart still pounds, but eventually I laugh a little, too.

  “No, he didn’t murder her,” Heather says. “From what I know, she’s fine.”

  So it wasn’t a joke.

  “But she doesn’t live here anymore,” Heather says. “I don’t know if that’s because of the attack, but that’s what most people think.”

  I lie down on my bed and place a hand over my forehead. “That is intense.”

  Heather reaches under the table and pats my leg. “We’ll keep looking.”

  I want to tell her not to bother. I want to tell her I’m not interested in a holiday love affair anymore, especially if my radar is so off that the one guy I picked out once attacked his sister with a knife.

  After we finish the turkey salad, we go outside to round up Devon so I can head back to work. He’s sitting at a picnic table behind the Bigtop with a bunch of the guys, all picking through Heather’s leftovers. There’s also a pretty girl I’ve never seen, snuggling up close to Andrew.

  “I don’t think we’ve met,” I say. “I’m Sierra.”

  “Oh, your parents own this place!” She holds out a manicured hand and I shake it. “I’m Alyssa. I just stopped by to meet Andrew for lunch.”

  I glance at Andrew, who is now three shades of red.

  He shrugs. “We’re not . . . you know . . .”

  The girl’s face drops. Her hand covers her heart and she looks at Andrew. “Are you two . . . ?”

  “No!” I say quickly.

  I’m not sure what Andr
ew’s trying to do. If he is with her, does he want me to think it’s not serious? Like I care! Anyway, I hope they become serious. Maybe Alyssa will help him get over whatever he holds for me.

  I turn to Heather. “Will I see you later?”

  “Devon and I can pick you up after you close,” she says. “Maybe we’ll go out and try to meet some people—or someone. You only want one, right?”

  Heather is not only pushy, she doesn’t even attempt to be subtle.

  She raises an eyebrow at me. “One month, Sierra. A lot can happen in a month.”

  “Not tonight,” I say. “Maybe soon.”

  But for the next few days, I can’t stop thinking about Caleb.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  On most weekdays, Heather stops by on her way home from school. Sometimes she hangs out at the counter and helps me out when parents show up with young children. While I ring up the mom or dad, she distracts the kids.

  “Last night, I asked Devon what he wanted for Christmas,” Heather says from the drink station. She’s carefully putting mini-marshmallows, one by one, into her hot chocolate.

  “What did he say?”

  “Hold on, I’m counting.” After she places her eighteenth marshmallow, she takes a sip. “He shrugged. That was the extent of the conversation. So I figured, it’s probably for the best. What if he wanted something expensive? Then if he asked me, I’d have to say something expensive.”

  “And that’s a problem because . . .”

  “I can’t have us buying nice things for each other right before I break up with him!”

  “So you can both make something,” I say. “Something small and inexpensive.”

  “Homemade and thoughtful? That’s worse!” She walks to a flocked tree and gently touches the fake snow. “How do you break up with someone who just carved you a wooden figurine or something?”

  “This is getting way too complicated,” I say. From beneath the counter, I pull out a cardboard box full of bagged mistletoe and set it on the stool. “Maybe you should do it now. He’s going to get hurt either way.”

  “No, I’m definitely keeping him through the holidays.” Taking another sip, she approaches the opposite side of the counter. “But it’s time to get serious about picking someone for you. The parade is coming up and I want you to double with us.”